Requiem for Shadows
by Mouself
Summary: K for death, blood. Nine tailors when a man dies, six for a woman, three for a child. How many for a shade, doomed to wander in darkness? How many for a lost creature? How many to toll a requiem for a shadow? Only the bells know, only the bells....


-Requiem for Shadows-

_Hear the tolling of the bells-  
__Iron bells!  
__What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!  
__In the silence of the night  
How we shiver with affright  
At the melancholy menace of their tone!_

-Edgar Allan Poe "The Bells"

-

"Those are the Fenchurchs, Ryou," Mr. Bakura was saying, pointing out the window of their dirty bus,

"If we're lucky, we'll get back from the hotel in time to hear the nightly ringing of the bells! Won't that be exciting?"

The spirit now in control of Ryou Bakura nodded, not really listening. He stared out the dusty glass at the stone churches disinterestedly. He'd seen it all before. Why see it again?

"—toll the deepest bell when someone dies," the man was explaining.

The bus driver was driving rather carelessly down the cobbled stone road, jolting the passengers about like jumping beans. A Latino tourist in the seat across the aisle glanced at the spirit and muttered something in Spanish. The thief flashed him a glare and ignored him.

"So, as I was saying," Mr. Bakura continued, completely unfazed, "They toll out nine strokes if the dead person is a man, six for a woman, and three for a child. Then they toll out the age."

The tomb robber decided to tune him out. He fingered the Millennium Ring idly.

Hopefully, night would fall soon and he could get something useful done.

-

"Hurry, Ryou!"

The spirit mentally cursed his host's father. He'd take his blasted time if he wanted to, and Mr. Bakura didn't seem to realize this. Of course, it wasn't that he particularly _enjoyed_ what he was doing at the moment, which happened to be watching a sports commentary. It was more the principle of the matter, really.

"Coming!" he replied, mimicking his other self's voice. He turned off the television and got up, with a slight grumble.

Then, plastering his host's cheery expression onto his face, he followed Mr. Bakura out the hotel room door.

-

_Bang, bong, bing, bang…_ sang the church bells in the steeple.

The dark spirit yawned. Those stupid bells had been going on for hours, it seemed. He glanced at his companion. Mr. Bakura was fascinated, staring in wonder at the great bells.

The he rolled his eyes and continued sulking. What was so great about some dumb bells anyway?

Sighing, the ancient spirit gazed up at the night sky. The moon was only a sliver, giving just enough light for one used to darkness to see.

He glanced at the other again. Still in Happy Bell Land.

He quietly got up and made his escape, melting into the shadows almost immediately. Time to get some work done.

-

The spirit looked back. He'd gone up a small hill, far enough to escape the obnoxious volume of the ringing, but close enough to see the small valley where tourists had set up blankets and chairs to listen to the bells. He knew his host's father would assume he had gone to the church to hear better; finding him afterward would not be a problem.

He turned away, allowing his disguise to melt away: the soft brown eyes narrowing cruelly, the thoughtful smile twisting into a wicked smirk, the feathery white locks spiking and sticking up as if with a mind of their own. The golden Ring about his neck began to glow brightly, sending deep shadows across his face that gave him a ghoulish appearance as he concentrated the dark energies of the Item. Shadowy mist began to ooze from the eye engraved on its centre, spreading out into the night air like tongues of black fire. The light from the Ring brightened, and the shadows slowly started to swirl and collect into a shapeless mass before him—

_Bong… bong… bong… bong… bong… bong…_

The shadows scattered as the spirit's concentration was abruptly broken by the deep, mellow voice of a bell.

Six tailors for a woman, he thought, recalling Mr. Bakura's words.

_Bong, bong, bong, bong…_continued the bell, tolling out the age of the deceased.

26 years, the thief counted irritably, cupping his hands over his ears and muttering Egyptian-sounding curses under his breath. Anubis, how did that blasted bell get so _loud_? He looked over at the spectators in the valley to see how they had reacted. Surely at that distance, the bell had done much worse damage than the ringing he still heard in his ears. He frowned. There was no screaming, no running, no effects at all from the obnoxiously loud tolls.

The spirit turned back. All he needed to do was get farther from the church. He could hardly hear the other bells from here—if he went farther away, he wouldn't be able to hear the loud one, either.

He looked ahead. There was a small patch of trees and brush about 100 yards away. Ah, that would work. He headed toward it.

He reached the border in a few minutes. He looked back quickly, then entered the small forest, sitting beside a tree. Closing his eyes, he again concentrated his magic, and again the darkness thickened and accumulated, this time beginning to form a spherical shape.

_Bong… bong… bong…_came the bell again, louder this time, tolling out a child's death.

The thief jumped, startled by the sudden noise, his magic shattering instantly.

Again it rang, eight deafening _bong_s resounding in his skull.

_Why was the bell _louder

Maybe it was from another church, one that the spirit couldn't see from his current position. Yes, of course that was it. It was probably just on the other side of these woods…

The tomb robber stared. He'd reached the edge of the trees, and was looking down into the valley adjacent his hill.

There was no church there.

Nor any as far as he could see.

In fact, the only man-made thing in sight was a small, ancient cemetery nestled in between long, sloping hills.

He went for that. No bells would ring where the living were not there to ring them.

**They are only your imagination,**a cool voice in his mind soothed. **Figments that vanish if you will them so.**

He reached the rusty gate and passed through, glancing at the tombstones worn and faded from years of standing. The spirit could feel the drifting of long forgotten shades, calm and solemn in their monotony. They took little heed of this intruder, knowing immediately the power he possessed. The silence of Death that covers every cemetery, old or new, surrounded him, in a strange way calming him.

**Don't get distracted,** the voice ordered, suddenly cold and commanding.

The thief nodded faintly, ceasing his wandering of the graveyard. For the third time, he bent the powers of his Ring to his will, and called upon it to arise. The shadows sprung up and began forming the swirling sphere of dark magic.

_Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong…_ interrupted the mellow voice of the bell.

This time, however, it did not break fully his concentration.

**Don't listen to them,** demanded the voice, trying to block out the thunderous ringing.

The bell sounded out the dead man's age. Then fell silent.

The spirit smirked faintly, then turned back to his work.

**You see? **said the voice, again soft and cajoling, **They are only an illusion, a trick of the—**

_Bong! Bong! Bong!_ began the bell again.

The spirit's focus wavered at the interruption, but he managed to keep the shadows from splitting. The bell sang of the deceased, and there was a pause.

Then it rang more.

The thief's magic was beginning to crumble under the over-powering cacophony. The shadows were resisting the invisible bonds that held them and leaked from the thick sphere in weak flickers.

**Keep going, don't listen to it! _Keep going_, **the voice bellowed, the words echoing fiercely in his mind, forcing him to keep his focus long enough to contain the magic.

_Bong, bong, bong…_

The cemetery groaned—a deep, unearthly groan that shook him to core of his blackened heart. The souls of the Dead were astir, moaning out their misery. They could hear the bell too, the spirit noted in half-focused delirium. And they were weeping.

Finally, the strain was too much. The black energy shattered, the Ring's light abruptly went out, and the thief fell to one knee, head bowed, breathing heavily. The bell was still ringing, softer now, though still drowning out the commanding voice in his mind.

He stayed there for a minute or so, trapped between the cold bell and enticing voice. The ghosts flitted angrily about him, caught in a mad dance of fury that only the Dead and those who know the Dead understand.

He understood.

_Traitor…_

The white head shot up at the sound, voices that crackled like dry leaves. The Dead were speaking.

"What!" he questioned them, his tone a harsh whisper.

_He who betrays his loved one must himself die…_

The spirit staggered to his feet, his brown eyes ablaze.

"I have not betrayed any of them!" he declared furiously.

_He who betrays 100 must 100 deaths die…_

He felt a misty form brush his face, and recoiled.

"Liars!" he yelled defiantly, "You cannot call me a traitor! You know nothing! I have not betrayed them…"

**It's the bell, **whispered the voice coaxingly, **Get rid of it, and all your problems will be solved.**

Yes, of course…

The tomb robber glanced wildly in the direction of the church. He had to get rid of that bell.

He began running unsteadily up the hill through the darkness, hearing the bell continue to sound in his ears. Upon reaching the top, he stumbled through the brush, branches lashing his face. Two bells now began to ring, both tolling out Tailors that became dual horrors pounding in the spirit's skull. He ran harder, tripping on roots and stones across the uneven ground.

Finally he reached the opposite edge. All the lights from the tourists had been extinguished, only the church could be seen in the faint moonlight. He started down the hill.

-

Mr. Bakura looked anxiously at his watch. The ringing of the bells had ended thirty minutes ago, and still Ryou had not returned. He'd expected him to go to the church, perhaps to get a better view of the bells, of course. But Mr. Bakura had waited for his son by the massive wooden church door since he'd managed to get there through the tourists. And still there was no sign of him.

The archaeologist was getting worried.

Then, he saw him. The boy was running toward him, rather erratically with a look of fear upon his face.

"Ryou? What's wrong?" the man asked cautiously.

The white-haired boy he thought was his son looked at him numbly, then ran past him, flung open the door, and vanished within the depths of the church.

"Ryou!"

-

The spirit raced down a hall. _Where was the belfry?_

He came to a dead end and stopped, paused, thought. Then he wheeled 'round and darted down another hall. Three bells were ringing now, his pain growing only worse.

**Find it!** the voice was ordering, but the thief needed little encouragement.

Finally, he found it.

There was a long, steep stairway leading up into blackness. And at the top were the Bells. A fourth tolled. He winced, then dashed up the stairs.

Up, up, up, they went, pale moonlight illuminating the way as if in an eerie dream.

No, no. Not a dream. A nightmare.

He came upon a room where there were no more stairs. The ancient spirit glared at the room in frantic confusion, then saw the trapdoor. He pulled it down with all his might, nearly ripping the frayed rope from its tattered hole. A small ladder fell from the new entrance. Five bells now sang out the many deaths.

He could see the ropes bobbing up, down, up, down—like some strange dance. Soft, pallid moonlight illuminated them from gaping windows on all sides of the great belfry. He shuddered and scrambled up the ladder. He had to _cut those ropes_.

Then he noticed Them.

The spirit froze, his face as white as his fair locks. They were everywhere, crowded into the chamber. Yet each had plenty of room to move about and stare at the tomb robber They knew so well. And They were ringing the horrible bells.

**Get the bells, cut down the bells! **the voice ordered.

_Bong, bong, bong…_

He backed away, and turned just in time to see two of the long-dead corpses close the trapdoor with a deadening thump. The thief drew back in horror from them as they gazed back at him dully through eyeless sockets, flecks of gold embedded in the decaying flesh glinting in the light. The two stepped toward him, the bony legs wavering on decomposing tendons and muscles. He retreated, and others began moving near him.

_He who betrays a loved one must die;_

_he who betrays 100 must 100 deaths die… _They chanted softly, shuffling forward.

**Ignore them. Listen to _me_.**

He felt a wetness on his chest. He put his hand to the spot, about where the Ring hung about his neck—it came back sticky and red. His eyes flew downward to the Item and blanched.

Blood, thick and scarlet, oozed from the Millennium Ring, pulsing by a heart of gold. He lifted it up. Blood dripped onto the floorboards with a sickening plop. In a frenzied terror, he pulled the Ring off and flung it to the floor, and retreated hurriedly from the ever nearing Dead.

_Bakura…_ They murmured.

_Bong, bong, bong…_ sang the mourning bells.

He didn't dare answer Them. Their faces were harsh and unfeeling, an ill omen for the spirit. He felt the back of his foot hit something. It was the edge of a window that opened like a wide maw ready to swallow him.

**Look, they are only bones! Bones can do nothing!**

Finally, the words seemed to penetrate. Yes, of course. They _were_ only bones. What could bones do to harm him?

_Bong, bong, bong…_

A creaking tremor went through the skeletons.

_He who betrays 100 must 100 deaths die…_

**Listen to me and you will gain ultimate power. These pitiful bones are nothing.**

_Bong, bong, bong…_

Slowly, the normal broad smirk spread across his features as the voice again began regaining control. Now it was They who drew away from the arrogant tomb robber.

**You see? They _fear_ you…** encouraged the silky voice.

He blinked in almost intoxicated pleasure, his brown eyes growing dull and lifeless, the sinister grin darkening. He took a step forward, toward the corpses ringing the bells. They peered at him coldly, and continued to pull the ropes—up, down, up, down—as if they could not stop until all lost lives had been honoured.

_Bong, bong, bong…_

_Who_ were They honouring? the spirit wondered vaguely, but the voice pushed the thought from his mind.

**Bones care not for honour. They appear only to lead you to destruction. Dead, broken bones. _I'm_ trying to _help_ you…**

He nodded dumbly. Of course they were only dry, cracking bones. Who cared if they were―

_He who betrays 99 must 99 deaths die…_

He stopped suddenly in his tracks with a jolt, the voice's spell broken. He knew who they were.

_Bong, bong, bong…_

The Dead stared at him expectantly.

Inhabitants of ancient Kuru Eruna, slaughtered to make seven Millennium Items of incredible dark power. That is who they were. They were his kin, his kith, his childhood world.

_Bong, bong, bong… _the bells chimed and then were silent; the ones who had been ringing the bells finally ceased, their task completed.

The long forgotten tomb thieves crept forward timidly.

_He who betrays 99…_

Ninety-nine times the bells had tolled, for ninety-nine lives taken so long ago.

Not merely bones, sun-bleached and splintered. No tomb or sandy grave for Kuru Eruna. Nay, their bones were mixed into the terrible gold.

_He who betrays 99…_

The spirit soon found himself backed against the window once more.

"I have not betrayed you!" he insisted, calling out his past.

**Do not listen to them! _Obey me!_**

The spirit cringed in pain as the voice attempted to again seize command over his thoughts.

**You have listened to me for the past five thousand years. You _trust_ me...**

_He who betrays 99…_

A small child of about 6 years of age stepped forward, decaying like the rest. Half of his face was plated with shining gold that reflected off the gold in his hands. It was the Millennium Ring, bleeding slowly like veins of the deceased.

_He who betrays 99…_

The voice was screaming in his mind. The thief stared in unfocused disorientation at the dead boy toddle with childlike ungainliness toward him, the long cord of the Ring dragging on the floor. He looked up, and brown eyes met empty socket and solid golden eye.

Then a single tear slid down the burnished metal. The old spirit glanced about him. The other tomb robbers were crying, salty drops trickling down rotting cheeks. He looked back at the boy.

The child was smiling, tears still forming and falling in large, wet droplets.

**_You are mine!_** the voice roared, making the spirit reel from the agony of his mind being torn in two. He staggered back, and realized in sudden shock that nothing was there to catch him. There was an unearthly shriek from his mind.

Then he was falling, falling…

He saw the child weeping—the boy nodded slowly, confirming his fate…

And smiled.

-

"Ryou? Ryou, wake up!"

Ryou Bakura yawned, and blinked awake. His father grinned at him from his seat beside him on the bus. The boy stretched his tight muscles from sitting still so long.

What a funny dream, he thought, it seemed so real…

The passenger across the aisle was muttering in Spanish to his wife and directing strange glances at him. Bakura blinked, then shrugged it off, and turned his attention to his father, who was now pointing out a window at a large stone building.

"Those are the Fenchurchs, Ryou…"

-

Somewhere, there was a little Fenchurch nestled in a little valley between two little hills. And up in the belfry, a single bell rang:

_Bong, bong, bong…_

_Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong…_

Three Tailors for a child, five years of age, lost for countless centuries in Life, now found in Death.

* * *

**  
Ugh. I am _dead_ after writing that! Dead, I say! Alright, constructive criticism is welcome, because if I get enough, I'll just crumple this story up like I did my last Evil Bakura story, and just write a new one.**

**Oh, and I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!. Kazuki Takahashi does. And I got all my bell/Tailors info from the book The Nine Tailors**, **by Dorothy Sayers. Good book, that. Read it! I don't own it. But I _do_ own little decaying angsty-fluff boy! Yay for little decaying angsty-fluff boy!**

**Peace out, yo. This is Mouself, signing off.**


End file.
